Not So Little Things
Through her niche business building dollhouse sized replicas of historical rooms, Tina Edwards enjoys the little things in life- her own peaceful apartment, control over her successful career, red wine and iced tea.
When Tina’s estranged, dying mother wishes to move in and share family secrets that must be told, Tina has to face the life-altering event she witnessed in her father’s final moments. In not wanting to believe what her mother has to say, Tina discovers the stories we tell ourselves are the most destructive. And in telling Tina the truth, her mother, Mary Jane, realizes even out of love and with good intentions, facts can be undermined by the choices we make.
When Mr. Jake Martin hires Tina to replicate the original rooms of his family’s Victorian mansion, Tina discovers more than the businessman cares to know about his family. Having been fueled by tales from the past, he believes he must accept his lineage, but chooses to ignore it.
Set in the foothills of the North Georgia mountains, Tina Edwards’ story, as well as Jake Martin’s, illustrate how perception from our youth paint our future, whether our memories are the truth or not.
The slam echoed throughout the apartment, yet I could still hear the whistle of each breath coming from the other side of the door. In the split second the door had opened, I had locked eyes with the thin woman, her hair wrapped helmet-like in a scarf. Even with dark circles around her sunken eyes, the tube in her nose leading to a white box hanging off her shoulder, and the ridiculous looking floral house-coat type dress, I recognized the woman instantly.
“Tina, come on, open the door.” The woman pounded on the door with more strength than I thought possible. “Is this any way to greet your mother?”
“Go away. You’re good at that. Just go away,” I leaned on my side of the door, the battle line drawn. There was no way in hell I was going to open the door, but I had already stepped onto the trigger. The steel jaws had snapped, trapping me between head and heart.
“Tina, I’m not leaving until I talk to you,” my mother said as she wiggled the door handle.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. Stretching and loosening my jaw, I backed away from the door. I refused to let the woman who abandoned me, who sold my childhood home out from underneath me, who dumped me on my wheelchair-bound aunt’s doorstep, walk into my life like no time had passed. Absolutely not. I stared at the door shaking my head as if the action itself would send the woman away.